


the kids dream of making it (whatever that means)

by misandrywitch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, like pretty much everything i write anymore, marauders friendship fic, which starts out happy and is actually surprisingly sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misandrywitch/pseuds/misandrywitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four boys, one friendship, four points of view. Mssrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs have been through a lot together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the kids dream of making it (whatever that means)

i.  
“Maybe I’ll break the tradition.” It felt blasphemous to say it out loud. Sirius loved it. He absolutely shouldn’t, but he does. The concept of not being in Slytherin is unthinkable, a daydream.

Sirius has been told how the Sorting will go; walk through the Great Hall, put on the Hat, hear its announcement, cross the room and sit down next to Narcissa. It never crossed his mind, that there was another option. He’s a Black, so there isn’t.

When tall dark-haired Professor McGonagall calls his name the boy he’d met on the train nudges him playfully in the shoulder and whispers, “Good luck, Black.”. Sirius sits down on the stool and meets his eye; James Potter, who immediately had joined him in teasing Severus Snape, who had proclaimed his desire to be in Gryffindor with pride. James Potter, Sirius could tell almost immediately upon meeting him, is the kind of person his mother would despise. The kind of boy who grows up with perpetually scuffed knees and dirt ground into his elbows, who has never been forced into expensive dress robes and who never combs his hair, who is loud and often in trouble. He likes him, a lot. He absolutely shouldn’t, but he does.

James sends an exaggerated wink in his direction, and then the hat drops onto Sirius’s head.

When it makes its announcement, silence descends on the Hall and every single head is turned his way. Nobody applauds. Sirius thinks, as McGonagall coughs and moves to lift the Hat off his head, that he should jam it back on, demand it to reconsider, force it to give the right answer, the answer it should have said. No, no, no, this can’t be happening this is wrong, this is all wrong, Sirius thinks frantically, but the Hat is gone and McGonagall motioning him towards the Gryffindor table.

Sirius takes a slow, stumbling step forward and then he hears it. Someone is applauding, someone in the group of unsorted First year students is whooping and cheering.  
“Yeah Black!” James Potter is shouting, jumping up and down in line with his hands over his head. “GRYFFINDOR!”

And suddenly the rest of the Gryffindor table is applauding too, and as Sirius sits down people reach across to pat him on the shoulder, congratulate him. He isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or throw up, but when James joins him and budges the red-headed girl from the train out of the way to sit next to him, Sirius feels a little bit better.

There are four of them in room, four boys; the room is nothing like Sirius imagined it would be. It’s in a tower not a dungeon, and decked in red and gold, not green. They enter the Gryffindor common room through a painted portrait of a witch, not through a stone wall, but there’s a warm fire crackling in the grate and James is jumping up and down on his four-poster bed enthusiastically. Sirius claims one in the corner, right under the window, across from James and next to a pale, brown-haired boy with purple suitcases-sized rings under his eyes and an extremely battered trunk.

There’s a round of introductions; Remus Lupin, halfblood and with a wicked set of scars, who shakes Sirius’s hand and doesn’t quite meet his eyes, and Peter Pettigrew, round, blonde haired and offering a bar of chocolate. Peter’s eyes grow round when Sirius announces his name, and he feels sick all over again.

He’ll have to write a letter home, have to explain what happened, have to apologize.

“My parents weren’t in Gryffindor either,” Peter says cheerfully. “Both Hufflepuffs.” This does not make Sirius feel very reassured, so he glares.

“Any of you lot play Quidditch?” James bounces off the bed and starts rummaging around in his trunk, retrieving a collection of slightly rumpled Wimbourne Wasp posters. Remus shakes his head resolutely and starts pulling books out of his own trunk. He seems to have an endless supply of them, old and well-used like the rest of his belongings. Sirius thinks of the library in Grimmauld Place, heavy old books that have never been opened.

“My mum never let me,” Peter says wistfully.

“Do you?” James asks.

Sirius could explain that he lives in London, that he was rarely allowed on a broom at home because it was uncivil and somebody could see, that Andromeda had let him fly hers when he visited his cousins and how much he had loved it. “Yeah,” he says. “A little. You do, then?”

“Oh yeah,” James grins. “Gonna try out for the team. I’m a Chaser.”

“Wow,” Peter says admiringly.

“Any good?” Sirius kicks his own trunk open, then immediately shuts it again. The scarf sitting on the top of his folded robes is green.

“Very good,” James says confidently. He pauses, chewing his lip with his hands on his hips. “Your parents would be mad, won’t they, if you’re on the Gryffindor team? I don’t wanna be rude, but my parents have. Er. Mentioned yours.”

“My mum’s gonna kill me anyway,” Sirius manages to sound light. “She’s mentioned your family before. Blood traitors.”

“Yeah,” James doesn’t seem bothered by it. “Wanna play Wizard’s Chess?”

They settle down for a quick tournament. Peter laughs a little too quickly at James’s jokes and Remus doesn’t seem to want to laugh at all, and Sirius knows he shouldn’t, but does anyway. They are all nervous, all very young and sitting on the first day of the rest of their lives.

Remus beats all three of them, solidly, then picks up a book and vanishes behind the curtains of his four-poster. Sirius’s bed is smaller than his at home, but more comfortable. He can see the lake from the open window, and the dense Forbidden Forest. Scotland smells oaky and dark and clean, and Sirius pulls the covers over his shoulders and wants to laugh and cry at the same time. He’s somewhere he’d never thought he’d be. He could have friends, even. He’s let his family down, broken the worst rule he could break. His mother is going to kill him. He isn’t sure he’s unhappy about that.

Freedom feels overwhelming. But James is snoring heavily in the bed across from him, and Sirius thinks maybe, maybe, it’s going to be alright.

ii.

Remus wakes slowly and painfully, as he always does, struggling with the ache in his muscles, trying not to think about why they hurt. Usually he is alone, or Madame Pomprey is standing quietly nearby, folding a clean set of clothes or preparing a potion. But not today.

Three faces are blinking owlishly at him; James, newly bespectacled with his arms crossed over his chest, Peter, chewing his lip with his bookbag slung over his shoulders, and Sirius.

Remus blinks sleep out of his eyes and knows he should be saying something, anything; “I got ill overnight,” would do. But his throat is dry and his eyes are heavy and there are four faces peering at him in a rough semicircle.

“We know,” James says very seriously, and Remus’s heart drops straight into his stomach.

“Potter, Black, Pettigrew, out out out,” Madam Pomprey bustles over to them. “Remus has been very ill and needs his rest—and you are supposed to be in class.” They scatter, and Remus takes his potion and prepares for his life to end.

He beat himself up badly enough the night before that Madam Pomprey insists he stay in bed. Usually, Remus pushes her to let him leave the hospital wing as soon as he can; he’s terrified of missing class of course, but also of missing the ruckus that goes on daily in their crowded and messy room. Snacks mailed home from Peter’s mother, the beginnings of a prank outlined in a beat up notebook kept in James’s trunk, the new nickname dreamt up for Snape, whatever bet James and Sirius are throwing money at today. The last two years have made him feel, for the first time in his life, like he belongs somewhere, like he’s normal. They’ve been terrifying. They’ve been wonderful.  
Remus’s lip wobbles, and he rolls over and tries to sleep.

He stays in the hospital wing for the rest of the day but when the sun begins to set through the wide-spaced windows, Madam Pomprey kicks him out. Dinner is still going in the Great Hall, so Remus creeps upstairs to his room with the hope that he can slip in, slide into bed and pretend he isn’t there at all.

Peter, James and Sirius are sitting on Sirius’s bed when he peeks around the door, looking collectively more serious than he has ever seen them. He is horrified to notice he can smell them; their fear sits in the back of his throat like bile. He considers slamming the door shut and fleeing down three flights of stairs to the library, but James meets his eyes and so he slips through the door and crosses the room with his back to them.

“You’re a werewolf, aren’t you,” Sirius says abruptly. If Sirius is anything, he is direct. A blessing, Remus supposes. Get it over with quickly, dirtily, like tearing open a wound.

James’s left foot is crossed over his right, jiggling up and down. “Your mum isn’t sick, and you gave yourself those scars. That’s where you’ve been going every month. Why you’re sick all the time. That’s it, isn’t it?” Peter coughs, nervous.

Werewolf. Monster. He’s known this was going to happen from the beginning. He should have known better. He slides his bag off his shoulder, and his hands are shaking.

“Remus,” Sirius barks.

Remus closes his eyes, because it’s easier to stare at the inside of his eyelids than the accusing faces of his friends. The only friends he’s ever had. “How did you figure it out?” His own voice sounds very far away.

“I started putting it together when we had that astronomy lesson at the beginning of the year. Full moon, and you were gone. The rest just fell together,” James says.

“I’ll go talk to Dumbledore,” Remus manages.

“What?” Sirius’s voice is too loud.

“Ask him if—if there’s somewhere else I can stay, or another room— he knows, Dumbledore. But I’ll—I’ll just. I’ll go, don’t worry. You don’t have to even bring it up with him or Professor McGonagall--”

There is a long, very heavy silence. “What,” Sirius says slowly, “the fuck are you talking about?” Remus opens his eyes.

They are staring at him, all three of them, very intently. Sirius’s eyebrows have vanished under his fringe and Peter’s mouth is hanging open. He hasn’t yet said anything. Remus finds his heart is beating very hard.

“You’re right,” he says to them. “About me. I’m a—werewolf.” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “You can’t want me here. I’m dangerous. I’m just—making it easier for you.”

“We—what?” Peter speaks for the first time, looking completely bewildered. Peter looks bewildered often, so it’s not that surprising.

“Merlin’s baggy y-fronts,” Sirius stands up abruptly and takes a step towards Remus. “Are you not listening?”

“It’s a secret for a reason,” Remus doesn’t understand what’s happening. “I’m a monster. I know that.” He feels numb, on the inside and on the outside. “I—I’m sorry.”

“Well, I will tell you I was a bit shocked but I’m not gonna kick you out onto the street!” Sirius shouts.

“Shut up!” James whacks Sirius in the midriff, making Remus jump. “You’re impossible. Be quiet. Remus.” James crosses the room, and Peter and Sirius follow him quickly. His face is more serious, more concentrated, than Remus has ever seen it. He looks much older than he is; Sirius looks much younger. Peter looks like Peter. It strikes Remus suddenly that this James, this side of him that’s just below the surface all the time, is the reason why they always fall in line with him, even when his ideas are dangerous or idiotic. James is a leader. “We’re don’t want you to leave. Why—we wouldn’t-- ”

“Why do you think?” Remus can’t bring himself to meet their eyes. “I lied to you. I’m dangerous.”

“You’re our friend,” Peter says, very quietly. His voice wavers, but he does meet Remus’s eyes and his jaw is set.

Something seizes up in Remus’s chest. It would be easier, somehow, if they were cruel to him rather than this. Pity, maybe.

“You don’t get it,” he snapped. “Or you’re lying, and it isn’t funny. Just leave me alone, I’ll go.”

“Shut up!” Sirius shouts, and smacks James’s hand away when James grabs at his tie. “We don’t care, Remus! You don’t exactly expect your friends to grow fangs one night of the month, but that doesn’t mean we don’t care about you. Did you really think we’d—I don’t know—chase you from the castle with a pitchfork?”

“You wear way too many sweaters to be considered dangerous,” Peter says, and Remus is startled into laughter. This feels like a horribly sick joke. “You said that stuff about how you weren’t sure you’d be able to come to school but Dumbledore fixed it so you could. James said that means Dumbledore knows, that you have somewhere safe to go. Right?”

“You obviously don’t wander through the castle eating First Years,” James adds. “Pete’s right. We’re your friends and your—your—furry little problem is not going to change that!”

“My furry little problem?” Remus laughs, horribly. “It’s a bit more than a furry little problem. You make it sound like a—a growth, or something.”

“Well you do have a tail, don’t you?” Sirius’s eyebrows waggle.

“Ye—that is absolutely not the point.”

“The point is that I don’t care,” Sirius snaps stubbornly, his jaw setting as it does when he is settling in for a long argument. “And we know your secret.”

“And it’s not just your secret anymore,” Peter nods.

“It’s all of ours,” James adds.

“You are all bonkers,” Remus manages, forcing himself to speak, forcing himself not to cry. James jumps forward, dragging Peter by the elbow and Sirius by the tie and grabs Remus around the middle, in a bony, many-armed hug.

Remus is suddenly, uncontrollably grateful for the three of them and every stupid thing they’ve done and said, every sleepless night and close call and detention and set of dirty shoes on his bed. It’s worth it, even with James’s elbow in his stomach, Peter’s sticky fingers on his arm and Sirius’s breath gusting down the back of his neck.

There is a long explanation ahead of him, a confession of silver teeth in the dark in his bedroom window and nights spent being shuffled out under a cloak when the sun has set and the moon has risen to transform in a shack hidden by a tree. James and Sirius will ask questions, because James and Sirius always do, and Peter will stare and they will all look horrified. Horrifyingly, he feels water gathering in the corner of his eyes.

“Don’t get all wet, honestly,” Sirius laughs in Remus’s ear. “We know you’re really big and scary now, you can’t cry on us.”

“In your dreams Black,” Remus replies brusquely. Sirius chuckles, then lunges for the sugar quill in Peter’s pocket and the four of them scuffle on their bedroom floor and Remus is happy.

iii.

It’s pouring rain the night Sirius shows up on their doorstep.

It’s been dumping for three days, uncharacteristic for June, and James is consequently restless and bored. He’s been itching to get on his broomstick and try out a few moves he and his dad have been discussing but can’t, so he spent most of the evening watching his parents pore over a game of gobstones before giving up and tromping into the kitchen with the hope that there might be an unattended bottle of beer with his name on it. He’s digging through the cabinets for biscuits when something knocks on the rain-streaked kitchen window.

It’s Sirius, in a leather jacket with his broomstick over his shoulder, and James’s stomach plummets because he knows what this means.

“Er,” Sirius says, when James flings open the front door. Both James’s parents have stopped their game and are peering around the corner into the hall. “Bit wet out here. Alright if I—“

“You’re a wanker,” James snaps, seizes him by the collar and drags him inside. “Did—er—“

They stare at each other for a minute. Water has plastered Sirius’s hair to his head and is puddling around his Doc Marten’s. His trunk is covered up by his waterproofed cloak. He smells like a wet dog.

“Took the bus,” Sirius shrugs. “Never try and take a broomstick on a bus. Never put a wizard on a bus, really. Should ask Evans more about them when we’re back at school.” He kicks the heel of his right foot with the toe of his left, and looks down at the puddle forming around him.

“What happened?” James says quietly.

“What always happens,” Sirius kicks his foot again, his hair in his eyes. “Except this time I’d had enough.”

There’s a knot in James’s chest and he’s about to open his mouth again when his mother makes her presence known by tutting in a very irritated manner, probably at the water on her wood floor.

“James Potter, are you planning to stand in the hall all night? Sirius, dear, take off your wet things and come inside. I’ll put the kettle on. James, shoo and fetch a towel.”

James hurries off down the hall to the linen closet and thanks Merlin and all his stars for moms, and their ability to always know the right thing to say.

Sirius towels off his hair, which hasn’t been cut since they last saw each other and shrugs off his jacket and his boots. He wraps his fingers around his mug and meets James’s eyes; he looks exhausted and scared, but also defiant. Sad. Triumphant. James’s mother bustles out of the kitchen so James slides into the kitchen chair next to Sirius and they look each other in the eye.

“I should’ve written,” Sirius says quietly. “Or something. I just--- I didn’t know where else to go but here.”

“Don’t worry about that,” James snaps. “My parents fawn over you, you know that. You really took the bus?”

“Was that or walking,” Sirius stares into his mug. “It was fine. I pretended I was foreign and didn’t understand the currency, and this little old lady paid for my ticket. Faked a Russian accent for three hours.”

“You’re an idiot.” They’re both quiet, and because James knows Sirius well enough to know better, he doesn’t push it.

James doesn’t take his friendships for granted exactly (they hold a tremendous amount of gravity in his mind, the gravity and importance only years-long friendships can really carry) but he doesn’t often sit down and talk about them. They have their nickname, their rulebook, their pranks and their big solidifying Secret. Remus confessed to him once, in the sincere and maudlin hours of drunk-at-2-am, that their friendship had probably saved his life. James knew it was true, but it felt strange to say it so frankly. Vulnerable.

His friendship with Sirius is similar; they’ve never sat down and acknowledged how much they mean to each other, how siblingless James has found a brother in a boy who had sat down on his red-decked four poster five years ago looking bewildered and lost.

James knows Sirius feels the same way. He also knows that, because Sirius is here, that something else has ended.

James’s mom makes the bed in the spare room down the hall and doesn’t question how long Sirius plans to stay. “Don’t stay up all night,” is all she says, before she and James’s father retreat to their bedroom downstairs. James pulls out the chess set, assembles it on the bed between them and hands Sirius his unopened beer.

They are three games and several more bottles down (James is winning, barely) when Sirius sets down his rook, clears his throat and says, “They’re going to remove me from the will. That’s what she said, anyway.”

“Fuck,” James says. A good response, without really saying anything. Fuck the situation, fuck your parents. Fuck this chess game, for good measure, and the weather too.  
“Yeah,” Sirius drains his bottle. “But I volunteered, so I guess I’m getting what I asked for.”

“It’s their fault,” James says, because it’s always their fault and he’s got no doubt that whatever pushed Sirius over the edge, forced him finally to get his trunk and his Doc Martens and walk out the front door, that it was their fault.

“Yeah,” Sirius says again. They’re quiet for a minute, because James knows Sirius won’t say anything if asked. His nose and cheekbones are illuminated by the lights from the garden, wavering and soft from the rain.

“I should be glad, right? I hate them, Prongs. I hate them so much—“

“You don’t have to be glad about it,” James says.

“I am!” Sirius is fierce, suddenly. “Fuck them, you know? Fuck them. I’m done, it’s over. Fuck them. Fuck—“

James isn’t sure what to say, so he does the only thing that seems natural. He grabs Sirius roughly by the shoulder and hugs him; Sirius curses steadily into his neck and rams his fist into James’s side so hard he suspects it will bruise the next day. He doesn’t really mind.

They’ve always been comfortable with each other, he and Sirius. Always wrestling and shoving each other, hugging each other, roughing each other up, sloppily kissing each other on the face and kicking each other out of beds and off couches. Remus has a tentative physicality; he’s very unsure of his own strength, uncomfortable with his scars. Peter doesn’t quite know how to go about it, but gives the most solid high fives.

But this is different somehow, means something. It’s not a joke. Sirius is sobbing breathlessly into James’s pajamas, cursing through his teeth with his fingers digging into James’s ribs and it’s so far from funny that it seems impossible it could even be happening.

Then all of a sudden Sirius pulls back, wipes roughly at his eyes. “Give me another beer, you bastard,” he says, and James complies. They pick up their game, almost exactly where they left off.

“You slobbered all over my shirt,” James says, and Sirius tossed a pawn at him. It bounces off his forehead and collides with the collection of empty beer bottles, knocking them all onto the floor with a crash. James and Sirius both freeze, and then burst into laughter and that’s really how James knows that Sirius will be okay, that things will be okay in time.

iv.

The map was Peter’s idea, really.

It is their magnum opus, their greatest achievement, concrete evidence of their brilliance and tenacity, the crown jewel atop their seven-year friendship. James and Sirius had expanded upon its potential and they had looked to Remus, who had furrowed his brow and chewed his lower lip and vanished into the library for about a week.

But Peter had suggested it first.

They had been using it, with varying degrees of success and tweaking it as they went, for half a year, but tonight James has dragged them out of bed and into the library to show them the finishing touches.

“There isn’t any way this could have waited until morning?” Remus’s hair is rumpled and he looks bleary. James shakes his head enthusiastically, an enormous shit-eating grin on his face. “It better be something worthy of the beautiful hour of one a.m.,” Remus yawns.

“Why do you have to be so bloody sarcastic all the time?” James grumbles.

“Well, I’m a werewolf, I’ve got a big nose and I weigh about ten stone soaking wet. I’ve got to have something going for me.”

“Fair enough,” James considers the point. “I do have great hair and my Quidditch talent to fall back on.”

“Only one of us has great hair,” Sirius, in a threadbare sweater that doesn’t belong to him, stretches sleepily and drapes one arm heavily over Peter’s shoulders. “And it’s not any of you. Similarly, my eyebrows are a gift from God.”

“I’ve got alright eyebrows,” James’s facial expression indicates he will very soon be asking Lily Evans about the quality of his eyebrows.

“Sorry mate,” Peter says. “They just don’t compare.”

“I don’t think you’d be able to handle them,” Sirius drapes his other arm over Remus, who yawns again. “What’s the thing people say about great power?”

“It’s indicative of a big fucking ego,” Remus says slyly, and Sirius frowns.

“If I can bring your attention back to the most important thing in the room,” James says irritably.

“The Map? Or your ego?”

“The Map, you fucker. I, in a stroke of brilliance—“

“We talking about the same James?” Sirius mutters at Peter, and he has to hold in his laughter. James pauses, looking annoyed, but is undeterred.

“—have added a wonderful feature to our creation. A passcode,” he says, and grins. “I built in a passcode. It’s a stroke of genius, if I do say so myself.”

The four of them gather around the table where the map is spread out. They stare at it almost reverently, and James reaches across to thump Peter on the shoulder. “It’s perfect, mates,” he says. “It’s brilliant.”

“It is,” Remus says wistfully, and Sirius grins a blindingly white grin. They are seventeen, they are clinging to Hogwarts and childhood with their fingertips, and Peter is so grateful for them in this moment he almost can’t breathe. His friendship with James and Sirius and Remus is the most important thing in his life, so weird, so wild, that it barely feels real sometimes. They’ve made promises to each other that nothing will change in the future, but Peter knows this is a lie.

Things are already changing, both in the world and between them. Unfamiliar words between familiar friends; justice, conflict, war. They turn his stomach.

“Alright, calm down,” James draws his wand and clears his throat. “Men, this a very important moment. The pinnacle of our achievements, years of work, of struggle and illegality, of near-death experience—“

“Nobody almost died,” Sirius rolls his eyes.

“I did!” Peter interjects. “Mrs. Norris almost ate me, remember?”

“Occupational hazard, eh?” Sirius elbows him.

“Shut the fuck up, Pads,” James says, but his face is glowing. Sirius makes a grab for James’s glasses and they scuffle around in the library dust for a few minutes. Remus rolls his eyes in Peter’s direction good-naturedly.

This is the usual drill, something Peter knows and is comforted by. He knows deep inside of him that he’s seen as the useless on in this friendship, that people look at the four of them and see Sirius and James first, then Remus, then Peter. Oftentimes they fall out like this, with James and Sirius blazing the trail and making a mess, and Peter and Remus rolling their eyes in their wake. That’s what people assume about them, anyway. Sirius is daring and cool and effortlessly handsome, James engaging and talented. But Remus too has a streak of wickedness in him that you’d never imagine in someone who gets teary-eyed over T.S. Eliot when drunk; James and Sirius trust his ingenuity almost implicitly. Peter knows they don’t see him as the useless friend, but he sometimes worries he is anyway.

“Wanker,” James has retrieved his glasses and rolls up the sleeves of his pajamas, drawing his wand. “You’ve completely ruined the moment. Shut up.”

“You like it,” Sirius drawls, but falls silent. The Map sits between them and four gazes fall on it. This is an Important Moment.

Things have been different recently, between them. It started when—well. It really started with the Prank, Sirius’s terrible decision that was so far from funny that it warranted one huge, glaring capital letter in all their minds. James had been furious at Sirius for months, and Remus had just gone cold. They made up, though Peter was unsure of the details, and things had started changing after that.

Remus and Sirius had started spending time together, in a way that only James and Sirius had previously. It occurred mostly when James was out leading his Quidditch team in practice; they’d vanish for hours with the excuse of studying for Arithmancy in the library, which neither Peter or James were taking. Peter went looking for them once, and didn’t find them. He didn’t press it. He was good at observing, at noticing things, but not as good at discussing them. Remus and Sirius had a secret; even right now, with the four of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder around the table, they look at each other and something passes in their glance that Peter doesn’t understand.

And this year the unthinkable happened; James and Lily became James-and-Lily. Peter likes Lily, respects her, is rather terrified of her, but doesn’t really know what to say around her. Peter tries to be happy because James is happy, annoyingly ecstatic even. Sirius is happy now but wasn’t; he spent the first few weeks sulking about not being James’s best girl before accepting it. Peter used to be sure where he fit, where to insert his lines and how to make them laugh. Lately, he feels like he’s been stepping with the wrong foot forward, like he’s done something wrong but doesn’t know what it is.

James taps the blank parchment with his wand, and says “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” Ink blooms across the paper from the point where James’s wand is touching it, and it works so perfectly that none of them can speak.

James is grinning in the slightly frightening way he does when he is truly happy about something. Sirius’s eyes are bright, and Remus is smiling his funny, slightly lopsided smile. Peter loves them, loves them all.

And then Sirius loops his left arm over James’s shoulder and laughs excitedly, James grappling excitedly at his fingers in the lazy, relaxed physicality they have always shared. And he notices Remus and Sirius holding hands under the table, their fingers laced together with Sirius’s thumb tracing a scar on Remus’s wrist. It’s like a secret, like a promise.

And even though he is surrounded by his friends, by the people he has shared jokes and secrets and fears and seven years of his life with, Peter feels suddenly and crushingly alone.


End file.
